Chapter 1: First Sip, First Surrender
The first sip of beer was a revelation, and not a pleasant one. It tasted bitter and metallic, foaming unpleasantly on his tongue before burning a warm, awkward path down his throat. Megumi coughed, his nose wrinkling.
“See? Told you you’d like it,” Toji said, his laugh a low, grating sound. He reached over and clapped Megumi on the back, a gesture that was too hard to be friendly. The older man’s hand stayed there, a heavy, warm weight between his shoulder blades. Toji’s thumb moved, just once, a slow circle against the fine fabric of Megumi’s shirt.
Megumi tried to smile. He held the cold glass with both hands, focusing on the condensation beading against his skin. The VIP booth was dim, a cave of velvet and shadows draped in the honeyed glow of a single, low-hanging chandelier. Outside the frosted glass, the neon heartbeat of the city was a muted throb. In here, the world had shrunk to this semicircle of plush seating, the low table littered with bottles, and the three men who seemed to fill all the available air.
“He’s a natural,” Satoru purred from his left. He hadn’t touched Megumi, not yet. He just lounged, a long line of elegant leisure, his snow-white hair almost glowing in the amber light. The dark lenses of his sunglasses turned toward Megumi, hiding his eyes but making his attention feel all the more intense. “A little courage in a glass. Isn’t that right, Megumi?”
He liked how Satoru said his name. It sounded like something precious when he did it.
“I suppose,” Megumi mumbled, taking another, smaller sip. This one went down easier. A loose, floaty sensation began to unspool in his head, softening the sharp edges of his usual anxiety. He was eighteen, and he’d never been drunk before. He’d never been in a place like this before. He’d never had this many people paying attention to him before.
Sukuna, directly across from him, watched it all with a lazy, satisfied smile. The intricate tattoos on his bare arms seemed to shift in the low light. He was the one who had invited him, who had said a young heir to the Fushiguro fortune should know how to live a little. “The money is just an introduction, kid,” Sukuna said now, his voice a deep rumble that cut through the bass from the club below. “A way to get your foot in the door. The real currency…” He let the sentence hang, his sharp eyes trailing over Megumi’s face, down his throat, coming to rest on the trembling hands clutching the glass.
Then Sukuna’s own hand, large and warm, settled on Megumi’s knee.
Megumi froze. The contact was electric, a jolt that shot straight up his spine. The hand didn’t move. It just rested there, a possessor’s claim, its weight immense.
“The real currency is sitting right here,” Sukuna finished, his thumb beginning to stroke the inside of Megumi’s thigh, just above the knee. The touch was slow, deliberate.
A hot, shameful clench low in Megumi’s stomach made him gasp softly. He felt himself grow wet, a sudden, embarrassing slickness that had nothing to do with the beer and everything to do with the overwhelming sense of being wanted. His body was betraying him, responding to the blatant ownership in that touch before his mind could even form a protest.
“He’s trembling,” Toji observed, a note of amusement in his voice. He leaned forward, refilling Megumi’s glass from a bottle of something darker, more expensive. “Nervous, puppy? Don’t be. We’re all friends here.”
Puppy. The pet name sent another confusing thrill through him.
“It’s a lot, your first time,” Satoru soothed, his voice like silk. He finally moved, just to adjust his long legs, his thigh now pressing firmly against Megumi’s. “All these new sensations. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed. We’ll take care of you.”
Take care of you. The words wrapped around Megumi’s lonely heart and squeezed. He nodded, a barely perceptible dip of his chin, and took a gulp of the fresh drink Toji had poured. It was stronger, smoother, and it sent a wave of dizziness through him that made the booth tilt gently.
Sukuna’s hand slid higher. The proprietary stroke of his thumb was now perilously close to the juncture of Megumi’s thighs. Megumi’s breath hitched. He could feel the wetness gathering, a secret, humiliating acknowledgement of his own arousal. He was wet, trapped in the confines of his tailored pants, and so terribly wet it felt like a confession.
“Good boy,” Sukuna murmured, watching his face. “See? You know what this is. You know what you’re here for.”
Megumi’s vision blurred at the edges. The ‘good boy’ did it. Praise, direct and heated. It was a drug he’d never tasted. He’d spent his life in silent, gilded rooms, ignored by staff and trustees alike. He was a signature on a document, a balance in a bank account. He wasn’t a person. He certainly wasn’t a good boy.
He let his legs fall open a fraction, an invitation so subtle he could almost pretend it wasn’t deliberate.
Sukuna’s smile widened. He took the movement for what it was: surrender.
“There he is,” Toji chuckled, rough and approving. He reached out and ruffled Megumi’s dark, messy hair, the gesture demeaning and affectionate all at once. “Knew you had it in you, kitten.”
Another name. Kitten. Puppy. He was dissolving into a collection of their pet names, his own identity smothered under their attention.
Satoru’s arm came up along the back of the sofa, not quite around Megumi’s shoulders, but caging him in. He leaned close, his lips near Megumi’s ear. His breath smelled of mint and expensive gin. “You’re doing so well,” he whispered, the words a private secret just for them. “You look so pretty like this. So perfect for us.”
Megumi’s eyes stung. He blinked rapidly, turning his face slightly toward Satoru’s, craving the closeness, the false sweetness of the words. He was so desperate for the fantasy they were selling that he could almost believe it.
Sukuna’s fingers pressed inward, a firm, undeniable pressure through the fabric. Megumi jerked, a small sound escaping his lips.
“Shhh,” Sukuna soothed, his other hand coming up to tilt Megumi’s chin back, forcing him to meet those predatory eyes. “We’ve got you. Just let it happen. You want to be good for us, don’t you?”
Megumi nodded, helpless. His throat was too tight for words. The heat between his legs was a throbbing, insistent pulse. He was achingly empty.
“Yeah,” he breathed out, the word ragged. “I want to be good.”
It was all the permission they needed.
Toji took the glass from his unresisting fingers. Satoru’s hand finally settled on his shoulder, squeezing. Sukuna’s touch became more explicit, a ruthless, rhythmic massage that had Megumi arching off the velvet cushion, his head falling back against Satoru’s arm.
He was floating, disembodied by the alcohol and the avalanche of sensation. The crude, grasping part of Toji, the cruel, controlling possession of Sukuna, the devastating, lying gentleness of Satoru—they wove together into a net he had no desire to escape. This was attention. This was being seen. This was being used, and his starved, lonely soul welcomed it like a sacrament.
He was already theirs. The realization trickled through the haze, cold and clear. The money had just been the key to the gate. They were here for the garden inside, and they were already tearing up the flowers by the roots.
As Sukuna’s fingers worked him toward a shameful, quiet climax right there in the booth, Megumi bit his own lip to stay silent. He looked up at the amber chandelier, its light fracturing in his tear-blurred vision, and understood with absolute, devastating clarity that he would give them everything. He would hand over the keys, the codes, the deeds. He would spread his legs and open his mouth and present his throat.
Because when they were done, they might just call him a good bitch again.
And for someone who had lived his life in a silent, gilded tomb, even that was better than nothing.